Awakening
by coonskin
Summary: Missing scenes from Knight of the Phoenix. What happened when Michael first regained consciousness and found out where he was?


A/N: This is a fill-in-the-gap for the obviously several missing conversations that took place in Knight of the Phoenix between Michael being unconscious at the beginning and the next scene of him getting the bandages off and obviously knowing where he was, whom he was with, and that his face had been redone.

(KR)

Wilton Knight studied the man in the hospital bed. Michael looked not quite human at this point, a mass of bandages and equipment. Wilton picked up his hand, as he had often in the last few days. "Keep fighting, son," he urged once more. "Keep on fighting." Michael didn't respond; since his arrival, he had seemed to range between restless, agitated disorientation and being far too still. At the moment, he was totally still. There was nothing between those extremes yet, no coherent interactions. Wilton, the doctor, and the three nurses who were available in round-the-clock shifts hadn't to this point been able to get any intelligible words out of him, no sensible reply, not even a response to simple instructions such as to squeeze a hand. The EEG showed plenty of activity at least; his brain, shielded behind the metal plate that had saved his life, was definitely functioning. He just hadn't made it up to full consciousness to respond to them yet in the four days since they had brought him here.

The door clicked open behind him. Wilton, intent on the bandaged head, didn't turn, but he recognized Devon's footsteps. "We are making wonderful progress with the Knight 2000," Devon stated as he reached his side.

"Good," Wilton replied.

Devon nodded toward Michael. "How is he?"

Wilton shrugged. "He's still with us. The good doctor still won't give me a prognosis on a full recovery, but you know him, always negative. He has a lousy bedside manner."

"And you are still intending to partner him with the car if he does recover sufficiently?" Wilton nodded. "That's assuming that he will want to work with us," Devon pointed out. "You know, Wilton, this isn't like picking up a stray kitten off the side of the road. You took over a man's entire life without asking him as you had planned. From all our background information on him, he has a history of being - spirited, shall we say. I'm not sure how receptive he's going to be to us. Suppose he wants to walk out of here as soon as he can?"

"I had no choice, Devon; you know that. He would have died. It was come with us or nothing. You know good and well this wasn't how I meant to do it. He won't be able to walk out of here for several weeks, anyway; I'm hoping that I can win him over during that time. But to answer your question, if he does eventually decide to leave, he's welcome to, of course. He isn't a hostage."

Michael moved abruptly at that point, coming back to weakly agitated life, pulling against the restraints. Wilton Knight caught his hand. "Take it easy, Michael. You're safe here. You're among friends. Can you hear me, Michael?" There was no indication that he did, no effort to turn his head toward them, no answering pressure in the fingers. He still fought the restraints with as much weak strength as he possessed, but he didn't seem to recognize that there were people at his side.

Devon shook his head. "I have definite reservations about this whole plan, Wilton. Even if you had been able to ask him, I'm still not sure that he's the right choice for the job, and now, I'd be surprised if he listens to any of us at all once he wakes up. If he wakes up."

"He will, Devon. He will wake up, and he will listen - in his own fashion. We just have to give him room to listen in. This one will work better on a loose rein, Devon. Remember that in the future when you are dealing with him; don't ever try to repress that spirit and personality just because you aren't sure about it." Wilton sagged a little in his chair at the bedside, and Devon touched his friend on the shoulder.

"You should rest."

"Yes." Wilton looked at Michael again. "I want somebody with him when he does wake up, though. I'm trying to keep somebody beside him 24/7. When he does regain full consciousness, he's going to realize pretty quickly that he's strapped down and that he can't see. We'll have to reassure him immediately."

"The nurse is right outside that door, ready any time you call her. She can watch over him. You don't have to be here so much yourself, Wilton; this is becoming quite an obsession for you over the last few days. You aren't up to this."

"He doesn't need just a nurse; he's going to need a friend. I hope I'm there." Wilton sighed again. "But yes, I must rest now. Maybe you could sit with him for a few hours now and then, Devon. Talk to him. Get to know him, even before he wakes up. It might improve how you feel."

"I doubt that." Wilton's expression hardened, and Devon gave in to his old friend. "I'll stay here for a few hours, and then the nurse can take over."

"Thank you." Wilton Knight struggled to his feet, and Devon gave him an arm to pull up on. "And thank you for the good news about the car."

After Wilton had left, Devon stood there for a moment, then sat down in the chair. He watched Michael, who was still agitated, and a look of unmistakable sympathy crossed his features at the moment while no one was here to see it. "I really do hope you are the one he's been looking for," he told the man in the bed. "I would be delighted to be wrong about this."

(KR)

The scenes raced through his mind like a movie repeating. The blaze of fire from the gun as he looked straight into the barrel and Tanya shot him. Muntzy dying in the parking lot with the garish neon lights of Reno incongruously overhead on buildings around them. Scenes from Vietnam. Pain, helplessness, fear. And again back to the gun. Always, it looped back to the gun.

There was only one element that didn't fit in. Somewhere at a hazy distance, impossible to lock on, there was a voice at times talking to him. He couldn't make out the words except one: Over and over came his name. "Michael." "Michael."

He didn't recognize the voice, but he tried to focus on it simply as a relief from the scenes of chaos and destruction. He couldn't quite manage to. It would slip away behind the fog of memories, and Tanya's gun would belch orange fire, and his world would dissolve once again.

(KR)

There was darkness, at first a welcome relief from the visions of muzzle flashes, neon, and napalm. Michael still felt weak as a kitten, but his thoughts seemed a little clearer this time, more obedient to some efforts to gather them. He tried desperately to start to sort out his environment. He was in a bed. There was a hand holding his, a frail but oddly strong hand, and he shifted against it, then pulled away much more sharply as he realized that his wrist was fastened securely in a restraint. His other one was, too. He was helpless. In the distance, he was aware of the medical beep of monitors speeding up.

The hand tightened on his. "Easy, Michael. It's all right."

The voice was the same one he remembered hazily from earlier. "Who are you? Where am I?" he asked. His own voice sounded foreign to him, weak and hoarse.

"My name is Wilton Knight, and you're at my estate. You're perfectly safe here, Michael, and you're among friends. No one will harm you."

"Then why am I tied up?" This was reminding him of interrogation sessions with the Viet Cong during his POW days. Well, except for the softness of fleece he could feel. Nothing about the Cong had been soft, not in restraints or methods.

"I apologize for that, Michael. It's only temporary. Here." After a moment, there was pressure against his lips, and he recognized a straw. He sucked down a few swallows of water that tasted like the most delicious thing he had ever had in his life. Too soon, the straw was removed.

"Easy. Not too much or too quickly," Knight said. "If my friend the doctor were here at the moment, he'd be fussing at me for giving you anything at all yet."

This world of sounds was disorienting. Sounds and darkness. Try as he might, not a glimmer of light reached him. "Doctor?"

"You were hurt very badly. You were shot." Michael shivered, momentarily seeing that muzzle flash again. Knight's even voice went on. "We found you way out in the desert, almost dead. Fortunately, I am near enough to the great beyond myself that I have a doctor who has the annoying habit of insisting on going everywhere with me. If he hadn't been immediately available that night, you would have died. There wasn't even time to call for paramedics to come clear out there; we had to act right then. You nearly died anyway."

"Tanya," Michael said. He felt the fingers jump in his own.

"Tanya? Tanya Walker? She's the one who shot you?"

"Yes." He pushed against the darkness once again to no avail, and a sudden panic seized him. "My eyes. The gunshot must have - I can't see!" He fought to reach up again, but with his wrists restrained, he couldn't move.

Knight's other hand touched his shoulder reassuringly, giving him two points of contact. "It's all right, Michael. Listen to me: I promise you, absolutely promise you, you are not blind."

He wanted to trust the voice but was afraid to. So many people and things he had trusted in life had let him down. "I can't see!" he insisted.

"I know, but your eyes aren't damaged. Your head is heavily bandaged, and that's why you can't see. But there's nothing wrong with the eyes."

The muzzle flash replayed, and once again, he saw the world dissolve into orange gunfire. "Then what -" Tanya had shot him point blank in the face; he was sure of that. How had he even survived that at all, with or without a doctor right on the scene soon after?

"That metal plate in your forehead saved your life. It deflected the bullet."

That made sense, and Michael nodded or tried to. His head, swathed in bandages, could barely move. "But what happened?"

Knight took an audible breath. "The bullet deflected and came back out through your face, taking most of it with it." Michael froze. "But your eyes are fine. They are almost the only part that wasn't damaged."

"Then I - I don't have a face anymore?" He could hear the monitor beeps speed up even more.

"Yes, you do. Just not the original." Knight squeezed his hand again. "Michael, we did total reconstructive surgery. We had no choice; your injuries didn't leave us one, but I promise you, it was a first-class job. Once you are healed, nobody will ever know looking at you. You will not be deformed or disfigured in any way. That's the reason for the restraints right now; your healing is in an early, fragile state, and you could do some damage unintentionally trying to get the bandages off. You've obviously been having dreams." Michael tensed up. "You don't have to tell me what they are about, Michael. But you haven't been awake and oriented at all in the five days you've been here until this conversation. We added the restraints for your own protection, and I'm afraid they will have to stay on for a while longer when you are asleep until you are more recovered from your surgery. You might hurt yourself otherwise without meaning to."

"I'm not asleep now." The words had a hard edge to them, a challenge. If this Wilton Knight was in fact on his side, let him prove it.

Knight didn't hesitate. He released Michael's hand, and a few seconds later, the pressure of the fleece on his wrist fell away. He felt the man reach across, and the other wrist was freed shortly after.

Michael flexed his hands, enjoying the motion, then lifted them to his head. "Be gentle," Knight warned. Michael barely heard him. He was probing, exploring. His head was indeed wrapped like a mummy, heavily bandaged. Only the smallest gap at his mouth was left uncovered. He felt around his face, applying a little pressure experimentally, and pain flared up in quick response. Knight was silent beyond that first admonition, letting him work things out for himself.

"What are you _doing_?" Another voice came sharply from across the room, followed by quick footsteps, and hands grasped Michael's wrists, pulling his fingers away from his head. Michael fought, but his weakness hampered him. Just moving for those few interrupted minutes seemed to have drained what little strength he had had in the first place.

"Now, Doctor, we weren't hurting anything. Just letting Michael feel around things."

"We aren't to that stage yet. He doesn't need to be feeling around things right now and damaging my handiwork." The doctor started to rebuckle the restraint around his left wrist, and Michael to his surprise felt Knight's hands move to block the others. Knight's hands felt much frailer than the doctor's, but they won the short confrontation.

"From now on, whenever he is awake, the restraints come off," Knight commanded with the voice of one certain of his own authority.

The doctor hesitated. "Only on the condition that he is oriented to my satisfaction and that he promises to leave those bandages alone."

Michael was getting annoyed at being talked over. "This is _my_ body, not your handiwork," he said. His words sounded a bit slurred to him, and he could feel his energy circling the drain. Even speaking was getting harder. "I've got more - rights - to it - than -" He could feel consciousness shimmering around the edges now, and he tried to muster up enough strength to fight to hold onto it just for a little longer.

Knight grasped his hand again and squeezed it. "Easy, Michael. Whenever he is awake, Doctor, the restraints come off," the old man repeated firmly.

"Stubborn as a mule, both of you," the doctor said. "Why can't I have a reasonable patient for once?"

They were the last words Michael heard for the moment.

(KR)

Darkness replaced the violent dreams again. Michael was starting to recognize the impenetrable darkness as being awake. He lay there for the first moments, struggling to hear something. Monitors were still beeping, and then came a new sound, the rustle of a page turning just off his left hip. Someone was sitting next to him reading.

"Mr. Knight?" he called.

There was the soft clap of the book closing. "He went to rest," a cultured British accent replied. "He hasn't left your side for days except when he absolutely had to."

Michael flexed his hands, discovering that they were firmly bound to the bed rails again. "He left orders that -"

"Yes, yes, I know." The restraints were unbuckled, and Michael let himself halfway relax. Of course, he felt weak as a kitten whether or not he was bound at the moment, and given his severe injuries and recent major surgery (unauthorized surgery, he added to himself), these people obviously had control of him right now with or without restraints. He was in no physical condition to do much of anything, and he hated it. Still, having his hands free helped. He flexed them, then reached up toward his head.

"Ah-ah-ah." The Englishman's hands, refined but less frail than Knight's, caught his. "The doctor also left strict orders. You must leave those bandages alone."

"Just who are you?" Michael demanded, getting irritated now at the unseen presence that spoke to him like a schoolboy.

"My name is Devon Miles."

"Are you his butler or something?"

There was a soft sigh. "No, I am most assuredly _not_ his butler. I'm a high-ranking and valued employee of Wilton Knight's. Also a long-time friend of his."

Michael wished he could see this Devon Miles, who sounded like he did the stuffy offended act quite well. Michael wished he could see _anything_. "So you know Knight pretty well?"

"Very well," Devon replied.

"So tell me, does he do this kind of thing often?"

"What kind of thing?" the voice asked. That was a stall, and Michael could hear it. Devon knew perfectly well what he meant.

Michael called him on it. "Come off it, Devon." Somehow, while Knight had automatically been addressed as Mr. Knight, he couldn't think of this man as Mr. Miles. "You know what I was asking. How often does Wilton Knight go around picking up wounded people and reconstructing them surgically?"

"As far as surgically, you are to my knowledge the first one. But the definition of wounded people can be a varied and broad one, and he does have a lifelong history of trying to help others who are hurting in various ways, even to his own detriment. He can make it a crusade of sorts at times." There was an edge in Devon's tone that sounded like that had been a not-infrequent bone of contention between them.

Michael sank back a little into the bed. He felt his tiny strength siphoning away again. Even conversation for just a minute wore him out. Feeling the weakness, he characteristically fought it, trying to push himself up into a sitting position. He barely made it a few inches, and even with that feeble effort, Devon was right on him, pushing him back.

"You are _not_ authorized to get up yet."

"Authorized? Devon, this is _my_ life here."

"Yes, we are aware of that, although keep in mind that it's only because of Wilton Knight that you still have possession of it. You would have died but for him. However, purely medically speaking, you still are in serious condition, and you aren't ready to exert yourself. Besides, you don't have the strength no matter how much you wish you did. If you tried to get up, you would only succeed in collapsing in the floor."

Michael knew the other man was right, and that annoyed him further. "So how long until I can get up? Also, how long do I have to be wrapped up like a mummy?"

"You'll have to ask the doctor that, not me. Medicine is not my field."

"And you've never heard him give an estimate? Not that you probably would have asked him, but hasn't Mr. Knight asked him questions about me medically when you were around? You have to have more information than I do, at least."

"You'll have to talk to the doctor," Devon repeated firmly.

Michael sighed, wondering if the answer was really that bad. Devon clearly knew _something_, but he didn't want to tell him. The answer must be weeks at least. He wished Knight were here, the one who had let him feel around his bandages, had been willing to cut him some leeway, had seemed to understand the _need_ for a little information at the moment. "When is Mr. Knight coming back?"

Devon audibly stiffened up. "He is resting, as I said. He is not a well man, and you have worn him out the last few days."

"Sorry," Michael said. That much was sincere, but then his voice took on a sarcastic edge. "So sorry for inconveniencing you, too, since you obviously don't want to be here. If it wouldn't be too much more trouble, and unless you have to ask the doctor about that first, could I have a drink?" His throat was dry, and talking made it worse.

He heard Devon shift, and a moment later, the straw returned. Michael picked up his hands, finding the cup and trying to grip it himself. Devon let him, but unfortunately, his weakness was overpowering him like a tide coming in again, and he could feel the cup start to tilt. Devon grasped it quickly again and held it, and Michael gave up, letting his hands fall away.

Devon did at least let him have as many swallows as he wanted, even asking at the end, "Is that all you want right now?"

It wasn't all he wanted, but it was all he had the strength to get. This was ridiculous. He couldn't even hold his own drink. "Yes," Michael said tiredly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Michael." There did seem to be an undertone of genuine sympathy in Devon's voice there, and it was the first time the other man had used his name. Michael was trying to classify him - not a friend, not like Knight, but not an enemy, either. A neutral, undecided party, still evaluating the other man, not ready to commit himself. That made two of them. Michael lost consciousness again trying to work it out.

(KR)

As the days and weeks rolled on far too slowly, the personalities in Michael's bandaged world sharpened and clarified.

There was the doctor, a crusty man with zero tact and less bedside manner. Michael quickly grew to appreciate him precisely for those qualities. As he got to be more awake for longer periods while the doctor was around, the man was perfectly glad to give him medical information, no holds barred. Michael understood in full medical detail now just how badly he had been injured and why the recovery was going to take several weeks. He didn't like that answer, but he understood it.

Three nurses rotated shifts. They usually weren't in the room when the biggest players were, but they were always available nearby. Michael hated the medically necessary aspects of their care, but they did provide somebody to talk to, at least. Someone was always right there, day or night. He made jokes about that, but secretly, he was glad.

Devon Miles was there the least, but he would turn up for a shift of Michael-sitting now and then, and Michael was starting to enjoy the Englishman's company. Devon with his extreme propriety was so easy to poke at, to wind up, but there was strength in him, more than Michael had thought at first. Beyond that, Devon's presence here told Michael even more about Wilton Knight. Devon wasn't just an employee, and the fact that Knight had earned that sort of loyalty from anyone impressed Michael.

Above all, there was Wilton Knight. He was present more than anybody, a fact that both the doctor and Devon scolded him for. Michael expressed concern himself occasionally, and Knight's response had been a quick, "I'm dying anyway. Might as well die doing what I want to instead of staying in bed to live just a few weeks longer." Michael couldn't argue with that logic.

The old man talked at length about his life, with occasional parts obviously shielded and off limits. Michael, who had plenty of private compartments of his own, respected that. Knight asked Michael about his own history, but again, boundaries were always respected. Michael had the feeling that Knight already knew everything available about his background anyway. As the weeks rolled on, Michael found himself growing into an odd sort of affection. It had been years, decades, since he had had any father figure in his life after his own father died in his childhood, but Wilton Knight was slowly assuming that role.

Of course, Michael did ask him a few times why. Why go to all this trouble and expense for a stranger? Knight had replied simply that people were worth saving and that the only worthwhile use of money was what you could do with it. He thought that Michael shared that philosophy, based on his history. "But there's got to be more," Michael challenged him one day. "There's something personal to you about me. Even aside from my medical bills, which have to be well over a million for all this, you can't possibly have put this much personal time and energy into random strangers all your life; if you had, you would have burned out decades ago."

Knight was silent for a minute, then gave Michael's arm a squeeze. He was of all of the visitors the most physically demonstrative, and Michael, for all his fierce independence, appreciated it. It was a point of contact, a touch from the unbandaged world. "You're right, Michael," Knight admitted. "This is personal to me. I will tell you about it, but not quite yet. I need a little more time to prepare, and you need more time to heal." Michael had pushed him mildly, but then accepted it - for the moment. He fully intended to hold the old man to that promise later, though.

The equipment surrounding him steadily grew less, and his strength slowly increased. He was still pathetic, but at least he could stay awake much longer than five minutes now. He wasn't yet strong enough to walk any distance, but one delightful day, Knight had him put into a wheelchair, and the nurse of the moment pushed it outside onto some sort of balcony as Knight followed slowly and stiffly alongside. Michael thought he could have sat out there forever, just feeling sunshine, hearing birds, smelling all the assorted smells of outdoors, having the wind play over his body. Freedom. There was still a world out there after all.

Finally, the long-awaited day arrived when the doctor announced, "We're taking off the bandages today." Michael had to force himself to hold still in anticipation while the scissors snipped away the gauze. At last, maybe he now would see what was going on, literally and figuratively. He couldn't wait.


End file.
